


A Friend in Need

by Tawabids



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Humour, M/M, Threats of torture, Yes I know those two shouldn't go together, this was not as shippy as I wanted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 23:16:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tawabids/pseuds/Tawabids
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Bruce are captured by gangsters who want access to SHIELD, and decide threatening Clint will get the required reaction from Bruce. A reaction is what they get.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Friend in Need

The leader was such a cliché that Clint had started calling him Godfather in his head. It wasn’t quite a geographically accurate nickname: his accent was something drawling that Natasha would have identified down to the exact province, but which Clint could pick only as somewhere in the top right of Europe. Nevertheless, the man clearly thought himself as a better class of gangster, so the Godfather it was.

"Mr Banner," said the Godfather. He leaned over Bruce, propping himself up with one arm on the back of the carved wooden chair. It had probably watched dynasties of mobsters come and go, that chair. Bruce seemed to know that too, going by the sweat stains under his arms and down his chest. "It is very simple. You will give us access to the S.H.I.E.L.D. storage facility for three hours. Only three, Mr Banner! It is a simple task. In return, you and your cute little bodyguard go home safe and sound."

"I'll have you know I outrank him," Clint called from the corner of the lavish smoking room, where he was being pinned to the floor by three guys who weighed and smelt about the same as septic tanks. Septic One gave him a good kick in the ribs for his trouble and Clint laughed through his winded gasps. Amateurs. The pistol was pressed once again against the base of his skull. The Godfather had said that the second they saw green skin, Clint's brains would make a nice confetti shower across the antique Florentine rug. 

God, Clint hoped that Bruce had the Other Guy under control.

Bruce was breathing hard, but his voice was steady. "I can't. I don't have remote access codes to their servers. And the magnetised door can't be disengaged from offsite. It's impossible."

"This is a lie, Mr Banner," the Godfather tilted his head. "A man with your knowledge of the security system can upgrade the swipe cards of existing S.H.I.E.L.D. agents, can't you? You can give Mr Barton's card full access to this facility, yes?"

"You'd still have to show photo ID to the guard at the door," Bruce said, and Clint swore silently. Bruce could have drawn that out way longer. "And it's Dr Banner, if you don't mind."

The Godfather struck him in the face with the back of his hand. A gem on his ring finger left a crimson scratch across Bruce's cheek. He grabbed Bruce's chin and wrenched his head back around to look him in the eye. "You will watch this, and then you will get us into that facility."

He clicked his fingers. 

The septic tanks hauled Clint up and dragged him to the snooker table in the centre of the room, keeping the pistol trained on his head the whole time. They slammed him face-first onto the green carpet. A couple of snooker balls rolled away into the pockets. Clint grinned. 

"Maybe you should try cutting my face off and wearing it like a mask," he told the Godfather. "That'll totally fool them. Try it." 

"You are a man who works with your hands, aren't you, Mr Barton?" the Godfather said from somewhere across the room. He was opening a drawer in his desk and there was the sound of metal sliding over metal. “I respect that. It is how I started out, the foundation on which I built my business.”

“Slave trading isn’t a fucking business, you sick pimp,” Clint shot back. “Drop the aristocratic mafia act. It’s pathetic.”

“What are you doing?” Bruce asked in a stretched voice. Clint couldn’t see the Godfather from where he head was being shoved down against the table. Septic Tank Two had grabbed his left arm and put his weight on it, pressing Clint’s splayed hand down on the soft, green felt. The Godfather loomed into his periphery vision. Something glinted silvery.

“A man who cannot work with his hands, well,” the Godfather shrugged. “He makes do. I hope you are smarter than you seem, Agent Barton.”

Clint’s heart started to race. He twisted and tried to buck Septic Tank Three off his back, but it was like trying to move a mountain. He could barely breathe for the weight of the man. 

“What are you doing?” Bruce repeated, plaintive, straining against the handcuffs that held him in the elegantly carved chair. 

“We will see how many of my men you can shoot your arrows into after this,” the Godfather rasped, leaning over the pool table. Clint tried to close his fist and felt meaty hands pry open his fingers and stretch them out. He was quite unclear on how breathing worked. He didn’t normally have to fight to make his lungs expand, did he?

“Bruce –“ he gasped. “Bruce, any time now – help a guy out here, Bruce –“

“In my experience, this will not be as quick as these American films would have you expect. The bone needs to be pried out of the knuckle joint and ligaments, I’m sure you know, are very tough to cut. But I will work as quickly as I can.”

“Bru-u-uce-“ Clint yelled.

There was the crunch of expensive wood furniture collapsing under a mighty weight. Above Clint, Septic Tank One – he of the brain-splattering pistol – was introduced very rudely to the Godfather’s solid oak desk and the two of them made a swift journey to the far wall. They collided with a squelch. Septic Tank Two gave a strangled cry of terror and drew his own weapon, firing six shots into the green wall of muscle stomping towards him. He, too, made a rapid union with the nearest wall. Septic Tank Three had the sensible idea to flee for the door, leaving the Godfather staring up at the creature that had been Dr Banner a minute earlier.

Clint rolled off the snooker table and clenched his intact hands to his chest with a sigh of relief. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the carving knife drop from the Godfather’s hand and stand quivering _en pointe _in the Florentine carpet.__

__“GANGSTER HURT HAWK,” the Hulk roared. The Godfather’s comb-over was blown out of place and a faint mist of spittle fell across Clint’s face._ _

__“I didn’t – wait –“ was all the Godfather managed before Hulk’s fist closed around his head, lifted him up and hurled him out the smoking room’s bay window._ _

__“HAWK GOT TEN FINGERS?”_ _

__Clint pulled himself to his feet. The Hulk was panting with rage. When was the Hulk not panting with rage? A warm glow seemed to spread through Clint’s blood. He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around the Hulk’s heaving green abdomen, tipping his head right back to look up at the Hulk’s broad face._ _

__“Buddy, I miss you when you’re not around,” he grinned._ _

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for [this kinkmeme prompt](http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/7940.html?thread=16568324#t16568324), which asked for Clint being threatened with having his fingers cut off and protective friendship dynamics. Somehow I ended up with shippy Bruce/Clint being badasses.


End file.
